


All the blues of the sky (and of his eyes)

by Akegatacchi



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, And basically everyone else - Freeform, Bad Boys, Boxer Damen, Bullying, Gen, M/M, Multi, Outcast Laurent, The power of friendship, a very 2000s ff.net fic, a very cliché glee/greasee/cry baby AU, a very self-indulgent old shool fic, bad use of physics metaphors, idk how to tag they're all bad boys/girls and outcasts, it was SO HARD to write so many characters, me projecting on all the characters, mention of non-con/rape but very very implicite, they're all secret nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27417043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akegatacchi/pseuds/Akegatacchi
Summary: Laurent of Vere is a slender and fair figure hunting the corridors of their school with his blue eyes and blue strands of hair on his blond head. He is as beautiful as he is captivating and had been expelled for physically or verbally assaulting students several times – all deserved in Damen’s opinion. His words are as scorching as the whiskey he manages to provide for the students’ parties. Even being the principal’s nephew doesn’t stop him.He’s the kind of person who smokes cigarette after cigarette just under the panel “smoking prohibited” and the teachers don’t dare say a word to him.The jocks seem to have an on-going war with him and his reputation of being the coldest cast-iron bitch around and even if he has never talked to him before, Damen knows Laurent’s winning it.A very self-indulgent cliché high school/grease/cry baby/glee/hms AU (minus the music). Highlights include: bad boy boxer Damen,  Laurent in a blue satin bomber he embroidered himself, Damen's nerd love for physics, sass, Lamen being kids, high school kids being assholes and exaggerated bigotry, me projecting her desire for hair dye on Laurent and Jokasteand an absolutely approximative knowledge of boxing
Relationships: Aimeric/Jord (Captive Prince), Ancel/Berenger (Captive Prince), Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince), Talik/Vannes (Captive Prince)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	All the blues of the sky (and of his eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> It's a gift for a friend who just finished her memoir/thesis and omfg even the title is cliché,,,, i wanted all the cliché and ambiance of a ff.net 2000s fic,,,,  
> but i have fun so suck it up!

For Damen, high school fucking sucks.  
He doesn’t like most of the classes, even if physics is alright, he doesn’t like the people – obsessed with a hierarchy of popularity, sexism, homophobia and racism, if his own past experiences are tell-tales of anything. One might think that these things would diminish with time, but the city of Marlas seems impervious to the outside world, too preoccupied with itself, like time had stood still or like they collectively decided to live in an old movie of bad tastes. He can’t wait to get the fuck out.  
He survives in school only thanks to his friends; even if they make a somewhat feared group with terrible reputation of violence that have been entitled the Akielons by virtue of hanging on a lot at Damen’s place of training, the Akielos Gym. It’s kind of stupid, since their piercings and undercuts and leather come solely from mutual aesthetics, but people fear Nikandros for his eternal frown, Damen for his title of Ios regional boxing champion and Aktis and Pallas by amalgam. Jokaste is the only one who’s actually scary, all thorns and petals, fearless to a point Damen respects her a lot. They dated for a while before Kastor made the fucked-up decision of taking a high school girl’s, who was his little brother’s girlfriend, virginity before throwing her away. Since then, her reputation precedes her in the corridors and nobody slutshame like high schoolers.  
They seldom get into fights, but when they do, it’s memorable enough to amass a large audience, with students coming running to see it, and to be the talk of the school for the next few days. At the end of their fists are, usually, jocks. Damen particularly doesn’t middle with them, who are all nice smiles and nice white teeth to hide the bullshit they said and the way they treat everyone like dickhead, misguided by a misplaced enormous ego. Most of them had been at the end of one of Damen’s well aimed punches a couple of times before.

If the Akielons are isolated by fear, he knows some people who choose to recluse themselves by choices and avoid social middling like the plague just as much as they do. They don’t form a group of friends however, and from what Damen can see, just individualists or introverts that are to be find more in the principal office, the corridors or hiding outside than in classes; and sometimes he wonders if they’re lonely, but not everyone has the chance to have a tight knight group of friends like his.  
If high school works like atoms, where people gather like protons and neutrons at the core – each core being a group of friends-, then these ones are like the free electrons running around but never getting close, opposite in everything. It’s a fragile equilibrium barely concealing the violence and judgement other students devote to them. He supposes it makes their group an atom too, but different, maybe like the ones physicists produce with accelerators, made of negative and positive mesons pi instead of neutrons and protons, and without any electrons around. But the high school electrons are slightly more agreeable with them than anyone else, as they simply talk when needed but are fortunately free of any judgement, gravitating around Damen’s group doing prohibited business and averting their eyes.

Free electrons around mesons pi atoms, uh. That’s wrong. He should probably revise that lesson before his test next week.

One of them is Aimeric, who spends most of his time in the quietness of the library, shy and pretty and all too eager to please, the type of nerd that’s easy to make fun of, even more because his father is the math teacher that doesn’t seem to care a lot about what students say about his son. His isolation seems to come more from awkwardness than anything else, and the part of Damen that has a hero complex that Nikandros likes to make fun of squeezes when thinking about the lonely boy.

Vannes is a force of nature to be reckoned with, a storm that causes havoc on purpose in classes and who came out last year and made very clear, loudly and proudly, that if anyone had anything to say about it, she has a very tall and very strong girlfriend, but also razor blades hidden into her veil. Nobody had been brave enough to check. The deadly combo of fear and homophobia seem like a perfect barrier against friendship.

Huet and Rochert run the cigarettes traffic away from the praying eyes of teachers and parents, and most of the school needs them for it too much to bother them. They’re inseparable and loud and abrasive and have more suspensions between the two of them than all of Damen’s friends reunited. Damen thinks they’re part of the track team like Govart, but he’s not sure. They sleep through most classes and don’t engage with people more than necessary, but at least they have each other.

Nicaise is a boy pretty enough to be an angel’s child, and skipped two levels, the smallest and most devilish boy to ever exist. A lot of people pick up on him, only to be faced with sharp words or a snarl, and Damen doesn’t count the number of times he heard he had been sent to the principal’s office. Two weeks ago, Govart made a lewd joke about him that resulted into a snarl and a kick that made him stumble back, to the laughter and applauses of other students.

The last of the free electrons is as feared as he is admired, and Damen himself doesn’t know in which categories he falls toward him.

Laurent of Vere is a slender and fair figure hunting the corridors of their school with his blue eyes and blue strands of hair on his blond head. He is as beautiful as he is captivating and had been expelled for physically or verbally assaulting students several times – all deserved in Damen’s opinion. His words are as scorching as the whiskey he manages to provide for the students’ parties. Even being the principal’s nephew doesn’t stop him.  
He’s the kind of person who smokes cigarette after cigarette just under the panel “smoking prohibited” and the teachers don’t dare say a word to him.  
The jocks seem to have an on-going war with him and his reputation of being the coldest cast-iron bitch around and even if he has never talked to him before, Damen knows Laurent’s winning it.

They are as feared as Damen and his friends, and the status quo is such: the free electrons are mostly left alone by the students outside of the business of buying them cigarettes and alcohol, with the exception of a few violent encounters, and all the brawls are directed toward the Akielons. They can try their worst to antagonize Damen and their friends, which ends in eyes rolls or fists depending on the level of the offense. Sometimes Damen really wonders where all of that comes from and what did they do to deserve it, but at the end of the day he has to power through one last year and he’ll be out of there forever.  
As Damen doesn’t need anything from the electrons, and vis versa, they simply ignore each other, as high school is annoying enough without adding unnessecary interactions.

It’s his last year, and the Akielons and free electrons finally and unexpectedly break the status quo.

*

Damen gets the news as he steps in one morning in the crowed corridor after parking his bike just outside the door, which isn’t really allowed but if he must be feared, he may as well take advantage of that. A few students glance at him, some lowering their eyes at once and some lingering, and he throws a disarming smile at their directions, just for the fun of it.  
Between balancing his backpack and training bag on his shoulders and the hubbub, he almost misses the buzz of his phone. Getting it out of the pocket of his leather jacket without dropping his gym bag on the floor is an accomplishment of his own but he manages and opens his mail app without second thought. It’s a mail from Makedon, his boxing trainer, and it’s entitled in all caps, “SELECTIONED FOR THE JUNIOR NATIONAL BOXING COMPETITION OF ARTES”.  
Makedon’s message is short and full of pride, and there is an official letter from the league attached to it. He stops in the middle of the hallway, not caring for people bumping into him and bouncing back from his imposing stature, because a year after winning Ios Championship, and more years of working hard, his goal is finally at grasping distance, and nothing is fine but everything is. It’s excitement and apprehension and dread at the same time, and he might throw up from it.  
Pallas’ claps on his shoulders brings him back to reality and the news stumbles from his lips in a quick breath, and Pallas’s blinding smile and cheers attracting even more attention from the student’s body and from the rest of their friends. Then it’s their screams of joy and congratulations and plans to celebrate tonight in Jokaste’s house with pizza and dumb horror movies and Damen’s cheeks hurt from smiling and his heart is in overdrive.  
His eyes met two very blue ones at the end of the corridor, and everything empties for a few seconds, before he looks at his loud, loud friends again.

Boxing is all he can think about for the rest of the day.

It’s Friday so Damen has mathematics and physics in the morning, and he likes it enough to attend it, but as soon as the bell rings for lunch break, he goes to his locker to retrieve his gym bag and skip the rest of his classes to train. He knows there is no classes in the school’s gym on this day and there is boxing equipment for him to use in a small room if he doesn’t get caught. It’s something he does to ease his anger when everything becomes too much, and the morning news have set his nerves on fire.  
The sun has risen so high in the clear blue sky that he’s sweating in his jacket even before the exercise, but the area around the gym is deserted of any students. In the silence he thinks about how good his instincts were to bring his gloves to school because now he has the whole afternoon to punch his nerve away and the evening to celebrate with his friends. He’s almost at the gym doors when he sees smoke coming out from the corner. He hesitates just a second, not wanting to stumble upon a professor before deciding it’s probably a student skipping classes and tenses; he doesn’t know which one is more of a headache.  
“Relax big guy, I’m not going to tell on you.”  
And it’s Laurent, the blue in his hair shining incongruously under the sun, just like the silver embroidery on his navy silk bomber. Damen notices the bags under his eyes that darken the sky of them like clouds heavy with rain, and suddenly can’t look away.  
He thinks his brain froze a little because when he is too slow to answer, Laurent pulls at his cigarette and says, “Ok, don’t hurt your cell brains, I don’t expect an ounce of clairvoyance from a brute like you anyway. I will spell it out for you. You didn’t see me skip class, and I didn’t see you,” and then, gesturing to Damen’s bag, “Congratulations of finding something to do with little brain and big muscles, you can move on now.”  
It sounds like an insult, a compliment and a dismissal all at once, and Damen is extremely amused. He wi nks and answers, “You can come and watch, if you like muscles that much.”  
Laurent makes a show out of scrunching his face in disgust, which is slightly adorable, but Damen has a sense of self-preservation and keeps it to himself, and turns to go back to his hiding place.

After that, only the punching bag matters.  
It’s a familiar enemy that he meets so very often, sometimes more than his friends. It’s a routine he takes comfort in, because the actual matches are nothing less than messy and bloody and exhilarating, but the bag is something he could lose himself in for hours and hours: he warms up away from it, stealing glances and keeping the anticipation at bay, then he starts hitting it slowly and precisely, focusing on his respiration and on his form to master perfection, and finally, he can go faster, hit harder, searching that strength that will earn him a win. His mind empties, until there is only the sound of his fists against the bag and of his patting breaths and time passes by without him noticing. So engrossed that he is, it takes him a few seconds to recognize one of the thumps as a door closing behind him, and not a hit on the bag. He looks above his shoulder, stabilizing the bag with one hand, and the uneasy feeling of having been caught off guard is surprisingly smothered when he sees blue strands of hair.  
Laurent is still leaning on the closed door when he says, barely above a whisper, “Monitors are making rounds to catch students skipping.”  
Damen lowers his arms, a little lost at what to do. On one hand there is little chances that they’ll come here rather that inspecting locker rooms and the stadium, but on the other hand this small room was locked earlier and Damen forced his way in, so to be caught in here, and with another student is even more incriminating.  
They hear the main door opening and closing, and distant footsteps, and Damen knows they have little time before they survey all the rooms and come here, so he jumps forward on instinct, getting right into Laurent’ space, not close enough that their chests touch but close enough to feel his breath and reaches out around him to lock the door from the inside. Laurent tenses immediately and Damen steps back so fast he almost stumbles; Laurent’s violent and sudden tension acting like a sting provoking a whole-body spasm. He wants to apologize but the next-door slams and suddenly the footsteps are very close. He still mouths “Sorry” and Laurent glares at him but relaxes a little, so Damen counts it as a win.  
Then the handle moves, tested from the outside, and they both freezes, eyes locked, holding their breath. Laurent arches his back a little to avoid any unfortunate encounter with the handle that could give them away, and Damen looks away, his throat suddenly even dryer than when he exercises.  
When the footsteps finally disappear, he waits for Laurent to disappear with it. Ever living up to his reputation of being a mystery, he just sinks down until he’s sitting on the floor, back leaning up against the door. Taking out his phone and starting to type on it, Laurent orders, “Resume what you were doing, Damianos. Pretend I’m not here.”  
Damen’s pride wants to do exactly the opposite, just because he doesn’t like being ordered around, and his fighter instincts are firmly against boxing with someone at his back where he can’t see, even in a training. He isn’t, however, quite sure who would win in a battle of stubbornness between them, so he turns around and complies. His whole name doesn’t sit right in Laurent’s voice, he thinks, and that’s what motivates him to throw the first punch.  
_One, two…. right hook._  
Getting back in the mood is harder with his hyperawareness of Laurent, something he tries to ignore each time he sees the blue strands of hair miserably fails to. The next punch comes with more strength than necessary.  
_Three, four… left hook._  
It’s useless. He won’t be able to focus again. Sighing, he takes a step back, his back bent, his arms still raised, and watches the bag oscillate for a while. When he turns around, he almost startles as he is met with the full intensity of Laurent’s eyes on him, as blue as the purest colour of the sky. _Nitrogen, oxygen, water, carbon dioxide, ozone, that’s why the sky is blue. They absorb all the light but one_ , he recites.  
“What?” he asks.  
Laurent’s voice is poison dripping along his neck, incredibly sweet and lethal, “Nothing. I did not expect such a brute action to look quite that impressive, sweetheart.”  
Damen smirks as he takes off his gloves and answers, “Well, that wasn’t even my maximum, sweetheart.”  
The air in the room couldn’t be colder and Laurent’s face more displeased, but Damen doesn’t care. Not only does his presence disrupt his much-needed practice but there is something about him that always puts Damen on edge. He puts his gloves down on the bench a little more abruptly than usual, and Laurent seems to pick up on his mood, or doesn’t and just wants to satisfy his curiosity because he asks, “When is your first national match?”  
“In three months,” Damen answers automatically because he can’t think about anything else since Makedon started training him for it last year, and this morning announcement made it worst. It seems so far away and too close at the same time, and he’s already thinking about increasing his training and changing his diet. It’s consuming in a way that is both the best and the worst, and Damen wouldn’t stop for anything.  
He had been fighting in the middleweight category for so long and just passed in the light heavy weighted, thanks to a protein diet and intense muscle training. Maybe it’s because of it that he’s finally qualified, maybe not, but Damen won’t risk losing weight anymore.  
Makedon can tell him how many times he wants how strong his opponents are going to be, it’s more exhaling than terrifying for Damen.  
Laurent gets up and opens the door, looking both way before leaving with a flippant, “Good luck, then.”

He manages to train for a few more hours after this, devoid of any distraction. It’s a text from Nikandros making his phone vibrate that break his focus, and its reads, _Where the fuck are you, dude? We’re waiting._  
He quickly texts back, _Training. Omw._  
Once outside, the sky is pitched dark and starry, and he walks toward his bike his head raised to look at it, distracted and serene in a way he only feels after leaving his last breath to training.  
Then he hears it.  
It sounds like a sob.  
He wants to ignore it, he really does. And there are two voices in his head, sounding oddly like Jokaste and Nikandros, telling him in unison to shove his hero complex deep into his arse and keep on walking, but he never really listened to them anyway. A little further in the parking lot, in the hidden corner that houses the dumpsters, is a little gathering of a few jocks, snickering and jostling each other in good humour. Damen mentally shrugs, thinking he confused a laugh with a sob, and is ready to turn back when he catches sight of a smaller silhouette. He frowns and takes a step forward, because he thinks he recognizes the chestnut tuft of curls as Aimeric’s.  
And sure enough, he hears Aimeric cries out, his voice trembling, “Get away from me.”  
Damen is too much aware of the jock’s little tradition of shoving people in the dumpsters, and even if he doesn’t really know Aimeric, he knows the boy doesn’t have it in him to fight back against them. He keeps on walking toward them and take out his leather jacket as he hears one of them says, “Come on, don’t be like that.”  
His friend goes to grab Aimeric by the arm, who does a whole-body flinch, stuttering, “N-no!”  
It raises even more snickers and Damen hears someone says, “Come on, faggot, play with us” and suddenly sees red. In moments like that, he remembers with painfully acuteness the feel of Kastor’s jaw under his fist, and the sound it made, and that’s mainly why he boxes, to keep his temperament at bay. Tonight, he doesn’t want to.  
He forcefully puts himself between the jock and Aimeric, shoving his jacket at the latter, and growls, “Fuck off. Now.”  
The whole group take a step back, and he feels Aimeric slipping away to the periphery. “What is it, Akelion? Wanna defend your little boyfriend’s honour?”  
“Dream on,” Damen says, clenching his fists, “If I had a boyfriend, he’d rip off your dick with his bare teeth.”  
He isn’t sure he can take all of them at the same time, no matter their difference in strength and experience in a real fight, but Damen doesn’t think anymore when he’s like that. Half of him hopes they will back off without a fight hence without involving the teachers, but the other half is really cheering for a broken nose.  
One of them steps forward to lunch a punch at him but Damen’s instincts are better and faster, and he has him bleeding from nose and lips in seconds. He growls again, “I said. Fuck off.”  
It causes a pause of hesitation in his friends and when the wounded jock, whose name Damen doesn’t care about, wipes his mouth and flips him the bird while leaving, they all follow with a few frowns.  
He turns to Aimeric, all the tension bleeding out of him in front of the sight of the still trembling boy. “Are you okay?” he asks.  
Aimeric nods and gives him back his jacket. It is neatly folded, and Damen finds it immensely endearing.  
He smiles, putting it back, and says, “Need a ride home?”  
Aimeric shakes his head, “No, someone is already coming to get me. I stayed because I had to wait for him.”  
Damen nods and together they walk back to the entry.  
“Thank you. For defending me. I’m not good with….” Aimeric makes a vague toward the dumpsters, looking stubbornly down.  
“Don’t worry about it –“  
“But they’ll probably tell the teachers…”  
“Don’t worry about it,” Damen repeats even if that’s the only thing he can think about. A single suspension and he’s out of Nationals. “They won’t do shit about bullying, so someone has to.”  
Aimeric opens his mouth to answer and is stopped by a car stopping in front of them. The window pulls down and an older man, not by much but enough to be a college student, smiles and waves at Aimeric, “Sorry I’m late.”  
Aimeric smiles, a smile that illuminates his face instantly and relaxes his whole body. Damen is suddenly aware of his beauty. He has no doubts about the nature of their relationship.  
“No problem,” Aimeric answers and steps closer to kiss him on the cheek. When he casts a curious glance at Damen, Aimeric adds, “This is Damianos. He waited with me. Damianos, this is Jord, my boyfriend.”  
“Hey. Damen,” he smiles, and Jord smiles back.  
“Hey man. Thanks, I guess,” Jord says back as Aimeric climbs into the passenger seat. If Aimeric doesn’t want him to know about the bullying, Damen won’t be the one to jump the gun, no matter what his opinion is. He watches them leave, straddles his bike and then it’s a weekend of pizza and his friends’ laughter, so he forgets about the encounter.

*

Until Monday.

Damen skips classes again to train. The air is glacial when he walks toward the gym and he’s more than happy to warm up through boxing. He puts some music on, the volume low, just enough that he can hear the basses and let them lure him into a regular rhythm until he forgets the cold and the phlegm.  
But a few minutes in, the door opens and closes and there is another person in the room with him.  
He doesn’t like to train in front of people, the only exception being his trainer Makedon, and that one time with Laurent. It’s the same for matches, where the adrenaline comes from the opponent and the immediate danger, the screams from the audience distracting and annoying him more than fuelling him.  
Having someone here means either one monitor busted him out or a poor unfortunate student found a misplaced sense of bravery and dared come here. He turns around, gloves still on, huffing and sweating, ready to snarl, but every word dies in his mouth in front of the colour of the sky.  
Laurent is wearing his characteristic navy satin bomber embroidered with silver, and a black turtleneck. His enormous Doc Martens make his legs look even longer and slender. Damen has to force his eyes up again, but gets caught up in blue strands of hair, and has to ultimately look away completely.  
“Go away, De Vere. There is no monitor right now,” he says. He really doesn’t want a distraction today.  
“You don’t know that.”  
“Did you come here just to be difficult or is there a point?”  
“I need to talk to you,” Laurent says, enunciating each word slowly, as if it was costing him, “about Aimeric.”  
Damen has no idea of where this conversation is going. It is recurring with Laurent, with whom his discussions are as seldom as they are cryptid. He frowns, “What about Aimeric?”  
“He told me what you did for him. As condescending as it was, he really seems to be grateful - “  
“Condescending? What’s condescending about helping someone?”  
“You treated him like a damsel in distress in need of a valiant knight in shining armour. I’m sure you pat yourself on the back for your act of bravery but be assured that you fool no one and that we both know it was more to satisfy your hero complex than to help him. I really hope you feel gratified to consider yourself superior to him solely based on physical strength, but that’s not the point here.”  
Damen is, quite frankly, stunned into silence. It takes him a few seconds to recompose himself and digest what he just heard while Laurent just stares at him, perfectly posed and calm, a portraiture of aloofness and disdain. Laurent’s ability to insult people is truly a thing to marvel at. Eventually, he says, “I mean…You’re not wrong. I’ll say it’s fifty-fifty.”  
He is rewarded with a surprised snort. He smiles when Laurent puts a hand on his mouth in order to hide his half smile and regain his poker face.  
“Hey, fifty per cent hero complex and fifty per cent wanting to help is not so bad,” Damen adds.  
“At least you’re not delusional, Damianos.”  
“Damen. So, what about Aimeric? You wanted to dissuade me to help him again? Something about him learning to stand for himself?”  
“That’s bullshit, Aimeric is way too soft for that. And he is not the problem, those assholes are. I just wanted you to know my opinion and…” He stops, biting the inside of his cheek before uttering, “And thank you. For protecting him.”  
Damen’s grin is probably very boyish and shit-eating, but he doesn’t care. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”  
“Don’t ruin it, you brute.”  
“Why do you care anyway? About Aimeric?”  
“Because I’m a nice person?”  
Damen snorts.  
“Because he is my friend, Damianos.”  
“Damen. Since when are you two friends?”  
“Middle school.”  
Damen should probably focus on his surprise and the new information given to him that somewhat turns the status quo upside down, but his mind is mainly on, “Did you come out of your way just to thank me? The truth is that there is a ball of softness hiding behind all this armour, isn’t it?”  
“Like you can talk. I also came to tell you that I took care of it and you won’t be suspended over it.”  
“Took care of it? Sounds like shady business.”  
“I told my uncle that I was the one to punch the idiot.” Laurent could have grown a second head and started playing the clarinet naked that Damen would have been less confused. “Why?”  
“Suspension means you won’t participate in the Junior Nationals, right?”  
Damen is suddenly very, very grateful. If he didn’t fear for his hands, he would even go as far as hugging him. Instead, he puts as much sincerity as he can into his voice and simply says, “Thank you.”  
Laurent nods and doesn’t make any movement to leave, but after last time, Damen doesn’t know if he expected him to or not. He looks down on his gloves, wondering whatever or not to take them off and back up at Laurent, whose eyes are lost on Damen’ shoulders, trailing down his arms until it lands on his gloves. Damen tries to not be conscious of his very sweaty and very dishevelled state in front of the prettiest boy he’s ever seen.  
Laurent snaps his eyes back to his and asks, “Do you train every day?”  
“Not usually. But you know, Nationals.”  
Laurent still doesn’t move and Damen swallows once. Twice. Falls back into the bench. Finally, he asks, his mouth working faster than his mind, “Why the turquoise?”  
It’s cyan, you obtuse ignorant.”  
Damen waits, and Laurent sights, before answering, “My uncle once said to me that I have the tastes of a girl who grew up closed up in a mansion reading books for children, which is not far from the truth, but I still wanted to go back at him and the rules forbid from dying our whole head but says nothing about just strands. So, he can’t really suspend me for it. And it’s fun.”  
Damen doesn’t know much about their high school’s principal, if not what he sees at back-to-school speeches, but Laurent certainly paint him in an unflattering way. He blurs out, his filter definitely stripped off by the violent, cold air of winter, “It’s the colour of the sky.”  
Laurent stares at him. Damen immediately starts babbling about all the gazes in the sky to avoid a cutting answer, and somehow, they talk for hours after this. Laurent tells him about horses and embroidering his own jacket, and Damen tells him about physics and boxing. Somewhere during a debate about this morning philosophy class, Damen loses his gloves and sit cross-legged on the bench, and Laurent sinks to the floor, his back on the door. He leaves only for last period, because he wants to attend literature, and Damen teases him for it, but is promptly teased back for his love of sciences not suiting his whole dangerous bad boy reputation.

“Bye Damen,” is the last thing Laurent says to him that day, throwing a glance above his shoulders as he steps out of the room.

When Damen resumes his routine, he misses a few hits, still troubled by it.

*

Damen knows that sometimes he can be a little oblivious, blinded by prejudices. Now he kind of wants to punch himself in the face for not realizing it sooner, and letting his opinion being shaped by rumours and other students. Because now that Laurent had made him aware of his friendship with Aimeric, he notices things he didn’t before.

The free electrons are maybe often seen alone, but they were never lonely.

And maybe he never noticed their friendship because they are rarely not seen together -or seen at all-, gone into hiding into corners known only by them. But now, Damen sees. It’s in the words whispered between library shelves about favourites books between two pretty boys, the banter and glares exchanged between two pair of blue eyes that leaves them more amused than annoyed, the harsh teases of a devilish boy with an angel face in the corridor that seems to motivates the shy one, and a nod from a veiled head to all those boys.  
He still isn’t sure about Rochert and Huet, but at this point, Damen doesn’t want to assume anymore.

This morning he sees Laurent and Nicaise arriving together at school, lost into what seems to be a hot debate about pastries, and when they pass in front of where he is leaning against his bike next to the entrance, Laurent nods at him. He nods back, a little gobsmacked, but they’re gone as fast as they arrived. A few minutes later, Vannes comes riding her yellow bicycle, matching her veil, and disappear into the school without looking at him. Before he didn’t think they arrived on time at school, not attended class diligently. Damen certainly doesn’t.  
But it’s not them he arrived early for. It’s for Aimeric, who is currently striding fast towards the school. His interaction with Laurent earlier in the week had made him toss and turn around in bed, thinking and thinking, before arriving to the conclusion than even if he will never tell him, Laurent was right. Helping Aimeric that day was mostly for his own gratification. A punctual action with a positive outcome is good, several of them with a lasting one is better. So, when Aimeric arrives at his level, he says, “Walk with me this morning.”  
Aimeric seems confused, stopping dead in his tracks, before understanding colours his face in gratefulness and a quiet kind of joy that can only come from hope of safety. Nobody is as physically frightening as Damen, and in high school, that is law. When they enter together, there are a few seconds of shocked silence before hushed words are exchanged while people follow them with their eyes, and Damen calls upon all his self-control to not roll his eyes. At the end of the corridor, gathered at Pallas’ locker, Nikandros and Jokaste do roll their eyes at him, with a synchronisation he almost laughs at. Pallas only smiles sweetly.  
He leaves Aimeric at his locker to join them, and, at the very end of the corridor, a few feet behind the Akielons, Vannes disappears with Nicaise around a corner, and only Laurent remains. His eyes are full of gratefulness, not a single trace of his usual aloofness in sight.

During first period, he received a text.  
_Your Royal Majesty of Muscles,_  
_You are cordially invited to eat with us this midday, if you wish so._  
_Coldest regards, L._  
He smothers a laugh in a fake cough and types back:  
_Your Highness of Bitchiness,_  
_I would be honoured, if it does not sow discord within your court._  
_Unsincerely, D.  
_Then:  
_How did you get my number?_  
The answer is quick:  
_Perfect. We eat in the park behind the school._  
_I asked Joskaste._  
Damen thinks it’s a good thing he’s already sitting because otherwise he’d waver. Laurent and Jokaste? Jesus.

As he changes classroom for second period, Huet and Rochert stop him in the middle of the corridor, looking like two intimidating brick walls but still smaller than Damen, who only raises an eyebrow. Today has decided to surprise him as much as he has surprised the other students, apparently. They are all frowning by the time Huet seems to remember the reason of all this beside a show of intimidation, and asks, “What’s up with you and Laurent?”  
There are a million ways Damen could answer this question, and he is, again, a little startled. How do no one ever know the free electrons were a tight unit similar to the linked elements of a molecule?  
He opts to says, “What’s up between me and Laurent stays between me and Laurent. Why don’t you ask him directly?”  
His answer makes Rochert grin and Huet’s jaw tense, but he follows Rochert without another word.

At midday, Damen buys a sandwich from the cafeteria and goes to the park. It’s a small, abandoned place, with weeds overflowing out of the fence into the asphalt. Overall, it doesn’t look like much.  
Damen reckons it’s good enough to act as a sanctuary, safe and hidden. He almost feels dizzy with what he is trusted with, and understand the fair exchange of protection and trust, earned and reciprocated on both ends.  
He steps inside and immediately spots the free electrons gathered on stumps and tree trunks. Huet and Rochert are sitting on the ground, their backs to a laying trunk, smoking and eating fries together. Above them, cross-legged on the trunk, Aimeric is typing away on his phone. Vannes, Nicaise and Laurent are scattered on stumps. When he arrives closer, Damen hears them debating something about a book.  
He announces his presence by, “What a bunch of nerds you all make.”  
Vannes rewards him with a dry smile as Nicaise answers, “At least, we know how to read, you savage beast.”  
Damen promptly lets himself fall on the ground next to Laurent and asks him, gesturing vaguely in Nicaise’s direction, “You have a son?”  
He hears Huet snorts and answers, “If only you know,” but doesn’t turn his head to look at him because the sky is looking back, its blue mischievous, one smug eyebrow raised.

_Nitrogen, oxygen_ , he starts to recite again.

He knows, objectively, that Laurent is dangerous. Where Nicaise’s claws are born out of pure necessity, Laurent could be the jewel on the high school’s crown, adored by all. He is smart and beautiful and athletic and every ingredient of a popular kid but doesn’t go nowhere near them. He remembers the first time he saw him at school, the first day of Damen’s second year and Laurent’s first. They had come from different middle schools, but he remembers the wide blue eyes and aloof poise and cheeks that still had baby-fat on them.  
Rumours had already spread about him, brought by former students at Arles Middle School – a cold-hearted virgin bitch, they whispered in the hallways. Sharp tongue. Pretentious jerk. Damen had not listened. Not a day later, some guys had made crude comments about him, and had been met by an icy stare and colourful insults. Not a week later, Laurent had been suspended for assaults for the first time, the first of many. It had been quicker than even Damen, who had lasted two weeks on his first year before throwing a punch.  
He had started back then to bury his hyperawareness.

_Water, carbon dioxide…_

Aimeric precariously puts his phone down, screen on the tree bark, and pipes up, “Anyone interested in a drunk piano recital Tuesday night? Jord invited me.”  
“Is he playing?” Damen asks and when Aimeric nods, “Drunk?”  
“Auguste too,” Laurent says.  
Damen remembers vaguely Auguste. He was in his last year when Damen was in his first, a figure of golden hair and smile, the popular kid great at both academics and athletics. The timing was such that both brothers never went to high school together. He can’t quite remember if their eyes are the same blue. As if sensing his stare, Laurent shoots him another of his unimpressed glance. Anyone else would look away, but Damen only grins, caught in the act.  
Vannes snorts and adds, shaking her phone as proof, “Lazar wants me to tell you that he is desperate to not go alone, even if drunk. I think I’ll take Talik as our DD.”  
“Alright so me, Laurent, Vannes and Talik -” Aimeric types on his phone as he lists and Laurent, also on his, interrupts, “Ancel’s in. So Berenger can drive too.”  
Aimeric nods and asks, “Huet? Rochert? You’re in?”  
“Sure,” Huet says as Rochert gives a stoic thumb-up.  
Laurent says to Nicaise, “I would invite you too but I don’t know if we want a re do of last time.”  
Nicaise rolls his eyes and pushes him a little, “Oh my god, shut the fuck up.”  
Huet’ smile is wolf-like when he explains to Damen, “Little boy threw up on Laurent’s favourite sweater last time we went to a party with college students.”  
“I remember his face, I can’t even – “Aimeric stops himself mid-sentence to laugh as Damen asks Nicaise, “And you made it out alive?”  
Nicaise bites out a bitter “Yes” as Vannes answers at the same time, “Barely. I thought Laurent was going to yeet him out of the car.”  
“It was a very close call,” Laurent says, completely stoic.  
Damen shakes his head and answers, voice rich from amusement, “I’m very curious about that story.”  
Nicaise stands straighter at once, as if stung, and instantly deadpans, “Absolutely not. It’s enough that we can’t let shit go with those fuckers, I don’t need a brute laughing at me, thank you very much.”  
“Can’t be worse than the time my father had to get me and Nikandros last year. Involves paint and cats.”  
Laurent turns his whole body towards him, and teases, “Now, I’m the one who’s curious.”  
Like a death knell ringing, Damen’s mind supplies, _Ozone_.

In the end, his story makes Aimeric laughs to tears. After that, he bites down his launch while listening to them as they continue to debate the same book. He doesn’t mind. They’re either sarcastic or cynic, but always in good sports and seems to find great pleasure into disagreeing and bickering. It’s a different type of friendship than the loud, funny, demonstrative type Damen is used to, but just as strong, and he finds himself smiling at their antics for the whole meal. He thinks Nikandros would get a kick out of trying to reign Nicaise in as he does with Damen, and Aktis would like Rochert deadpan remarks and jaggedness. Surely Aimeric would find comfort in Pallas’ kindness and, as terrifying as it sounds, Jokaste would like Vannes’ quick mind and Laurent’s tongue. When they all get up and ready themselves to go back to class, he finds himself asking before he can even think about it, “Can we crash the drunk piano stuff?”  
They all look at him at the same time in an unnerving and sync-up motion of their heads, which makes him regret asking immediately. But an alliance is an alliance and Damen wants to earn their trust -and maybe friendship- and let them earn his, but he never does things without his friends, his anchor in the shitshow that is high school. Deep down he knows he’s also curious about them – about how and why he enjoys their company so much.  
When he doesn’t back down nor elaborate, they all turn to look at Laurent expectantly. He understands only at that second that maybe the outing is an intimate, important tradition of theirs and opens his mouth to retract the question, not wanting to intrude. Laurent only shrugs, and immediately, Aimeric stutters “S-Sure?” as Nicaise squints and asks, “Define we.” and Vannes offers the flippant answer of “We take it seriously. You better be fuckin smashed.”  
Damen grins again, his heart beating faster as, on the other side of the road, the students keep on living their day roaming into the corridors of their school, happy to perpetuate old prejudices and hateful hierarchy and totally unaware of the new alliance that their outcasts are forming – surprisingly not out of necessity, but out of willingness.

*

Two weeks after the Tuesday Drunk Piano Debacle is Damen’s first match for the nationals. He’s away from the weekend, sharing an hotel room with his father, adjacent to Makedon’s. Kastor didn’t want to come.  
_Welcome to the eliminations_ , Makedon had said.  
The eliminations round, then five matches, and then Damen has to fight the one that matters the most. He wants this so bad – boxing, winning, _knowing he’s good enough to make a career out of it_.

His first match takes place early in the afternoon, and Damen had never met disillusion so hard before.

He remembers entering the building, and immediately being assaulting by the odours of sweats, plastic from the gloves and, looking at the others concurrent, victory. He is able to know which one fight in which categories easily enough by a single glance, just as always, but also that the level is well above what he is used to and he feels, maybe for the first time, that he is not good enough. Makedon claps his shoulders on his way to the front desk to get the time of his match, and his father stays close even if he doesn’t quite approve of Damen’s goal to go pro, so he sticks his chin out and stands straight, using all his height to muster up the courage he needs.  
But on the ring, he takes blows after blows without giving back until a miraculous punch in the last round that puts the Patran champion KO and leaves him victorious. The strength of despair doesn’t feel victorious at all when the referee lifts his right arm. When he gets out of the ring, he can’t even look at Makedon and his father. His whole body is aching, his torso probably bruised, and shame tastes awful when mixed with blood.  
He is far away from home, where he was something. Damianos, Ios regional champion. Feared Akielon. Here he is no one, just a kid that almost lost on the first match. The thought digs a hole where his heart should be.  
The hot shower only serves to hide his hot, rage-filled tears, and then he gets into bed after a sparse diner and no words towards his father. He feels alone and little, and can’t stop thinking about the match, watching it play again and again in his mind until he feels sick with it. He wonders if he has the resilience to get back from this humiliation and think about how, at home, there is a boy with blue eyes and a devil’s mind who always stands straight.  
He, suddenly, wants to see Laurent.  
His phone has been off since he left in the morning and when he turns it back on, hiding under the cover so that the light won’t wake his father, he is met with a lot of message of good luck and encouragement. His friends of course, but also all the free electrons, and even Jord, Auguste, Berenger and Lazar.  
The Tuesday Drunk Piano Debacle had started hesitant and ended up as one of the funniest nights of Damen’s life, and not even the memory of Lazar’s arm around Laurent’s shoulders, who so hates to be touched, could tarnish it. It had been messy, between trying to not giggle at the performance where Auguste and Jord swayed on their seats but somehow managed to keep a serious face and miss only a few notes, and singing and yelling random songs in the parks after, and his friend’s laughs, and Laurent’s bright eyes as each of his snarky comments were answered by Damen’s own. After that, they had all met up again, once at a café-concert Pallas really wanted to go, once at the Akielos Gym to see Damen train, which ended up as an impromptu group work out session, and once at a public park, relaxing in the grass together, just because. During that time, a group conversation was created, and chaos had infiltrated its way into Damen’s life in the form of an extended gang of friends.  
Tonight, Laurent’s text reads, _Is it prophetic to say ‘break a leg’ before a match? If so, break two!_  
He goes to isolates himself in the bathroom before pressing the call button. He waits only two rings before Laurent’s voice answer, slightly hesitant, “Hello?”  
“Hi. It’s Damen.”  
“It may come as a surprise to you, but your name is displayed on the screen, idiot.”  
The insult is said with such care, like an old nickname, that he doesn’t have the strength to start a banter, as playful as it always is. He’d lose anyway. Instead he whispers, hoping his voice doesn’t tremble, “I won.”  
And Laurent notices, because of course he would, and asks, “Was it hard?”  
It’s neither pitying nor recomforting, just a clear, matter-of-fact question, and that more than anything grounds him back a little. He breathes out, “Yeah.”  
Laurent waits a few seconds before adding, “Didn’t you have three matches? Tomorrow?” “Yeah.”  
“Break three legs, then.”  
Damen’ snort is a little wet, but Laurent doesn’t comment on it and says instead, “Two more to go. You can do it, Damen, we all believe in you.” His voice is even and calm, so far away from Damen’s world right now – far away from the storm he’s feeling. It has the peculiar quality it always has: elegant and delicate, each words clearly enunciated, almost as if his voice was made of glass.  
He doesn’t ask Damen why he called him when he said Wednesday that he wouldn’t be available on the week-end, why him and not Nikandros; just as he doesn’t offer comfort but states the facts as he sees them: Damen will win, because they both know he hasn’t another choice. This quiet, aloof confidence sets things back into their right orbit and Damen feels finally centred again.  
He takes one last deep breath before saying, “Thanks.”  
“You’re going to be alright?”  
“Yeah.”  
“I’m going to pretend like I believe that. And –“ He interrupts himself and Damen can hear him says, “Get out, I’m on the phone.”  
Auguste’s laugh, distinctive and contagious, is heard in the distance, then a door closing, and Damen asks, amused, “Auguste? That’s having a brother for you.”  
“Yeah, that fucker- “Damen laughs, because Auguste is the world to Laurent and vice versa but they also have moments like that. Then Laurent adds, “And Lazar. They enable each other too much when Jord isn’t here to be the voice of reason.”  
And that’s another hole in Damen’s heart. “Lazar is here?”  
“Yes. He’s spending the week-end.”  
When Damen doesn’t answer, Laurent asks, his voice edging on something dangerous, “Is that a problem, Damianos?”  
Damen swallows. “No. Of course not. You two seem close.”  
“It does sort of happen when you spend a lot of time with someone.”  
“So he’s here often?” It’s Laurent’s turn to be silent for a few seconds, before understanding colours his voice, “Ah.”  
Damen feels his cheeks warm up and that’s really the last straw of the day. He really does feel like a child today. “No. I mean – Yeah but –“  
Laurent interrupts by a quiet, unexpected laugh that soothes his ego a little and he concludes with a weak, “It’s none of my business.”  
“It’s really not. You have a one-focus kind of mind, don’t you, my brute? Lazar he – It’s not great, at his home. So yes, he spends a lot of time at my home. Mostly with Auguste. When he’s not here, he’s at Jord’s. But it helps that when he’s here, and if he spends time with me, my uncle leaves me alone. Nicaise’s often here too.”  
Damen is brutally reminded that the world is a place a little too big when you’re just a high school student, not understanding everything that’s happening and why. He knows Laurent doesn’t like to talk about his uncle by the face he makes after he left out a few throw away comments by inadvertence, like Nicaise never talks about his parents, Ancel about his work, Nikandros about his disability, Jokaste about Kastor or like they all pretend they don’t see the deeply sad looks Jord and Aimeric exchange when they think no one else is looking. Just like Damen doesn’t know where all his anger comes from, nor why, but at the same time he thinks he knows – his mother, his brother, the world – but isn’t ready to talk about it.  
So, he says, “Sorry.”  
“It’s okay. You had a hard day.”  
“It really isn’t. And it doesn’t excuse anything.”  
“Well, we all know you don’t have the place for a filter in your body in addition to all that muscles.”  
“Your fixation is getting a little obsessive.”  
“Like you can talk, dear. Besides, I don’t want you getting the wrong idea.”  
“Shit, you’re going to kill me.”  
“Oh, I know. That’s the plan.”  
“Thank you.”  
“What for?”  
“Sharing. Talking. I don’t know.”  
He can practically hear Laurent rolling his eyes. “Sure, Damen. Don’t make a habit out of it.”  
“Sure, I won’t.”  
“Bullshit.”  
“Like you can talk, _dear_.”  
“Ok. I’m hanging up now.”  
“Alright. Good night Lau-“but the line is already disconnected, because Laurent is just that kind of bitch.  
When Damen goes back to bed and had trouble falling asleep, it’s purely because of his aching body, and not at all because his heart is heavy with a lot of things that he doesn’t know how to proceed yet.

The next day, Damen comes back with a vengeance.  
Makedon doesn’t bother with giving him instructions nor encouragements because he knows his student and knows the spark in his eyes that is here to take control back. Rage is all that is left after a bad night of regrets and humiliation, and Damen is well used to channel it into his fists. He’s going to show to all these with pity in their eyes why he is the Ios regional champion, why he was selected to Nationals. He deserves his place here.  
In his second match, he knocks out his opponent so quickly that people stop to stare. Waiting for the third and last one, taking place later in the afternoon, he goes to train in the side room filled with punching bags, not brothering to hide the true length of his full strength, uncaring about the looks that the other competitors cast to him.  
“Looks like it shook you,” Makedon says with a proud smile, “Good. That’s the energy you want to bring out there.”

After the home ride where he sleeps like the dead and a well-needed shower, Damen presses the call button once again under Laurent’s name, even if he knows they’re going to see each other the very next day.  
This time, Laurent picks up before the first ring is even over, like he was waiting for it, and the first thing he says is, “If you didn’t win, I’m hanging up.”  
Damen laughs and answers, “I won.”  
“Of course you did.”  
“Of course I did.”  
“Two more months and five matches until you can brag about your national title then.”  
He wonders if Laurent keeps a little notebook with all the information about Damen’s life or if he just has the memory to remember it. The dates of Damen’s matches. What classes he has and when. His favourite meal. The way he drinks his coffee.  
But Laurent is also the type to remember that about all his friends, because the brand of cigarettes he uses is Huet’s favourite so when he’s out, Laurent can offer him one. He always remembers the dates and nature of Vannes’ religious days and brings Nicaise his favourite pastry on Wednesday because it’s his hardest day of the week. He guesses what kind of books Aimeric and Jokaste will like with frightening accuracy each time, and never forgets to lend it to them. He keeps track of the last time Nikandros takes medication and tells him if it’s too early or when he forgets. And so on.  
What seems different with Damen is that the intensity with which he does it. And that Damen wants to do the same in return.  
He wants to, but like when he is in the same room alone as Jokaste, he doesn’t talk about the things that really matter. So he doesn’t ask Laurent his favourite brand of cigarettes, or book, or dessert. He may have a suspicion it’s peaches.  
It frightens him, he thinks. To have something that goes outside the boxes he always has known. To be known. Or maybe it’s Laurent who frightens him, because he is fearless and blue. He walks in the corridors uncaring about the remarks on his hair or bomber or face or body and makes the insisting jerks eat their own teeth over it. He looks at Nikandros’ tired eyes and asks him if he wants to talk about it each time, no matter how uncomfortable it makes him; he takes Nicaise’s hand through everything; he erases the word “whore” written in sharpie on Jokaste’s locker each time, for everyone to see, daring them to stop him. He’d even look into Damen’s eyes dead on and ask him what’s going on between them without flinching.  
But he knows Damen doesn’t want to talk about it, not yet, so he keeps quiet. Like right now, and Damen doesn’t know how to fill the silence over their phone either.  
“Two more months,” is what he comes up with.  
“Yes, we already established that. We all know you’re the next Nationals champion, you just have to start believing so yourself.”  
“I- Yeah. Thank.”  
“Sure. Go to bed now, you need to rest. I’ll see you tomorrow”  
“See you.”

*

Monday couldn’t come fast enough for Damen, and by lunch break, revolts rumbles in the air of the cafeteria.  
Students whispers under their hands, stealing bemused glances each other and wondering what happened. Because the free electrons and the Akielons are eating together on an isolated table close to the windows; and they seem to have fun.  
All they talk about is the broken status quo, and Damen couldn’t care less about it. Not that he cared before, but he cares even less now. He’s still buzzing with his wins from the day before and, glancing at Laurent next to him, from something else. He’s currently neatly cutting his second peach in little squares, explaining Nicaise’s strange and strong aversion to ketchup to Aktis. In front of them, Aimeric is sharing fries with Huet and Rochert who are regaling him with the story of the party they attended Saturday, Jokaste judging them silently. Pallas and Nikandros are pestering Damen for every details of his matches.  
He’s high on his win, his late conversations with Laurent and his friends’ voices – the rest of the school is shit out of luck for him.

Then, Jokaste’s voice breaks his bubble, the concern in it barely hidden by her usual haughtiness, “Is that all you’re eating?”  
When they all turn to look at her, her eyes are fixed on Laurent. Damen frowns, and tries to remember if he has eaten anything other than fruits today. Or any other days. Then Jokaste turns toward Aimeric and Huet and Rochert and raises her eyebrow while gesturing to their fries. Of the free electrons, only Nicaise seems to have a full meal on his tray.  
Laurent frowns, “I’m usually not very hungry at lunchtime.”  
Nikandros resists a whole two seconds before his mama bear act breaks through and he says, “How do you last through the day? We’re supposed to be growing.”  
Huet shrugs, “Eat at diner?”  
Jokaste frowns even more, while Pallas and Aktis and Damen stays silent, not sure how to handle the situation. “And never at lunch?”  
When Huet shrugs again and Aimeric ducks his head, she adds, “That’s…. a very bad habit to develop. Or to had developed.”  
Nikandros nods, “That can’t be good for you.”  
While the situation worsens, the free electrons being on the defensive and Jokaste on the offensive, and even Nikandros calm and unflattering composure doesn’t succeed in railing anyone in, Damen wonders about it. Aimeric is still silent, curled up on himself as if he wants to disappear, but Nicaise’s hand is squeezing his real tight. He glances at Pallas and Aktis, but they are still deliberately not looking at their friends. Laurent grows crueller and crueller, like he does when he’s cornered and upset, but Jokaste can still match him for now – even if, they all know, when it comes down to it, no one can match Laurent. He refuses to latch out completely, a part of him still acutely aware that it’s his friend, but his temper threatening to overflow everything else.  
He wonders if one day they’ll tell them how they come to have such bad eating habits, but is not naïve enough to think there is one plain, concise reason for it, but rather an amalgam of it – the school, their home, themselves. He is suddenly stuck by how much he wants to know them, as he knows the Akielons, the easy and fun parts as much as the hard and sad ones. He is seized by a childish, bright affection that shines inside his chest like a personal sun. He is, also, infinitely grateful to be able to feel that.  
Something in his head that resembles Laurent’s voice gently mocks him, _Sentimental much?_  
He finds his courage on these thoughts, and asks out loud, interrupting the argument with a steady, loud voice, “Would it help –“ They all startle and turns to him –“ Would it help if you follow my diet plan? I have to watch my food so I don’t take nor lose weight during the nationals. It’s a pretty strict. And it’ll sure as fuck help me if you do it with me.”  
He doesn’t know what reactions to expect but he decided with Aimeric that helping wasn’t about what he receives in return. Yet Rochert’s wide eyes are a welcome break from his stoicism, and Aimeric and Huet’s gratefulness are always sweet to witness. They’re the firsts to agree, and it lifts a weight Damen didn’t know he had off his shoulders – both because his friends are going to eat, and because he hadn’t realized how tough the diet was on his undisciplined, unrestricted ways.  
Laurent is staring at him, which isn’t uncommon per se, but the blue of his eyes takes a tumultuous quality that reminds Damen of an incoming storm in the middle of summer, unexpected and dry, bursting and violent. The dark bags under his eyes are the clouds foreshadowing it, but Damen has always loved that kind of weather, and won’t hide under the safety of his roof. He knows Laurent will be hard to convince, if he can be convinced, but Damen will only back down after trying at least once more, no matter the cutting words and raised voice it will entail. He stopped fearing Laurent’s temper when he had learnt his most vicious arguments with Nicaise were over pastries.  
As for his bouts of violence, well, Damen doesn’t intent to disrespect Laurent. Ever. Or at least on purpose.  
He is saved of the mighty glare by Jokaste asking Laurent, “Didn’t you say it was time for you to retouch your hair?”  
Laurent nods and, finally looking away, turns contemplating eyes at her. “Yes. I haven’t decided on which blue yet.”  
“What are your options?”  
“I want to try and go darker. Indigo or cobalt or even midnight blue.”  
He takes out his phone and puts it screen up on the table between them, opening his screenshot and letting Jokaste browse between them. Damen can see a bottle of what he assumes is hair dye, and a rectangle of the colour next to him. Jokaste makes a considering noise at the back of her throat, her focus zooming on it. Damen, apparently still high of his overflow of sentimentality, thinks, _I need to talk to her and fix it. Kastor is not going to take my friend away_.  
Without waiting, he takes out his own phone and texts her just that. Then, he opens his palm and asks Laurent, “Can I see?”  
While Laurent gives him his phone, currently displaying the midnight blue hair dye, Jokaste takes out hers and read. Damen sees in the corner of her eyes that she reads it several times before putting her phone away but as his doesn’t vibrate, he knows she didn’t answer. He steals a glance up, and Jokaste has a rare look of vulnerability to her, half hurt and half grateful. If Damen lost peace with his brother, he knows Jokaste was touched somewhere in her self-esteem in a way that won’t ever truly heal. And almost losing each other is the hardest part.  
He really wants to punch Kastor again.  
Instead, he throws a smile at her. She smiles back, and maybe the world regains its true colours in Damen’s eyes, just a little.  
He returns his attention to the phone in his hand, and midnight blue is nice. It’s the colour of Laurent’s bomber jacket. He tells him so, earning a small smile, barely the corner of his mouth lifting. Seems like Laurent is not over their previous conversation. He swipes to the other colours, a pure indigo, as deep as the midnight blue, but far more purple. He doesn’t like to imagine it on Laurent, so he swipes again. Cobalt stares back at him, bright and unapologetic and Damen feels dizzy. His heart picks up and maybe he’s even sweating, his brain sort of short-circuited on it. It’s the exact colour of Laurent’s eyes.  
He gives Laurent his phone back and blurts out, the words slightly slurred, “You should do this one.” Laurent raises a delicate eyebrow as he adds, “It’s the colour of your eyes.”  
He feels his cheeks warming up and thanks his dark complexion to hide it, but he’s sure Laurent can see his embarrassment, and Jokaste’s eat-shitting smile is not helping.  
Damen wants to bury himself six feet under.  
After a few excruciating seconds, Laurent finally agrees, cheeks a little pink, “Ok. Cobalt it is.”  
“Not to interrupt or anything,” Jokaste interrupts like the bitch she is, making Nikandros snort and Damen kicking him in the shin in retaliation, “But can I come watch while you do it? I’ve always wanted to dye my hair. You use semi-dye, right?”  
Laurents nods, “Yeah. Green would look good on you.”  
“Please, no. I was thinking a lighter shade of blonde, or auburn. How long does it last, usually?”  
“Boring. With bright colours, four to five months I’d say. I never did natural colours. Maybe longer?”  
“Boring your ass, James.”  
“Do pink, you’d be my Jessie.”  
“Who would want to be your Jessie?”  
“Oh, I don’t know. A lot of people. I’m fairly certain our dear Damen over there would for example.”  
A little terrified, and mostly amused, Damen lets a laugh escape him and answers, “I’d be honoured.”  
Laurent throws a smug look at Jokaste and adds, “Nicaise can be Meowth.”  
“Oh, fuck you, asshole,” is the reaction they get out of him.

Unfortunately, Damen’s evening is far less entertaining than his friends’ antics, for he walks Jokaste home and lets her guide him inside, greeting his mother in passing. Her comment on how long it’s been since he’s been here last stings a little, but less than he thought it would. The conversation is hard, long and bittersweet, but he understands eventuality that Jokaste took the worst of it. She reprimands him into comparing the cruelty of high school kid to the loss of trust in a brother, but when he said he was talking about her self-esteem, she shuts her mouth abruptly and lets her head fall on his shoulder. They hug for a while and talk a little more. When he leaves an hour later, tired and uncomfortable and still raw, he comforts himself knowing they succeeded at salvaging their friendship.  
Almost like a reflex, he calls Laurent on the walk back.  
After he explains the situation, he is rewarded by a dry, “Congratulations on talking it out and finally overcoming your emotional constipation.”  
Laurent’s own brand of dry humour had always been charming to him, but tonight he feels emotionally exhausted and Laurent must sense it because, in a rare display of humanity he would violently deny, he tells him he’s happy for them and starts talking about his next embroidered project, a small rabbit eating stars he intends to frame for Nicaise’s birthday.  
Eventually, the discussion slips toward Damen’s proposal at lunchbreak, and evolves into an argument that left them both frustrated. Maybe Damen shouldn’t had let that happen after his discussion with Jokaste and knowing how sensitive the subject is for Laurent, but in the end, he’s not mature enough to quite know when to quit. In the end, Laurent reluctantly accepts, insisting he’s not making any promises, but it’s enough for now.

He goes to bed completely spent and upset, ready to sleep on it, and ends up turning and tossing late into the night, eyes a little wet. 

No one ever gave him the warning on how doing the right thing or helping could break his heart a little.

*

The heavy mood goes by as the time does, and soon the championship is approaching, and Damen is antsy for other reasons.  
Everyone tries to help, from those who skips class with him to go to the gym, to the carefully planned meals each lunch. They eat every day in the abandoned park behind the school, as none of the free electrons like eating in the cafeteria, and no one wants to add to the pressure of their already complicated eating habits. Laurent adds salads to his usual fruits, each fancier and more complicated than the precedent. On one particularly stressful day, Damen almost cry seeing him eat pastries with Nicaise.  
Overall, they help him keep his head out of the water.

One day, he is on his way to the park, crossing the parking lot with Laurent beside him, when he is reminded of why he hates high school so much. Laurent had stayed with him as he trained to work on his embroidery, and that’s something they do more and more, hanging out together, just the two of them without their friends. Damen can’t say he minds.  
They stop dead in their tracks as they spot Govart and his friends stepping closer to Nicaise, who had been walking towards the park too. They had spent the day throwing lewd comment at him, more and more obscene and homophobic as the day advanced, and following him around. Jokaste and Vannes had moved closer to each other at each one, an instinct born out of a fear a boy like Damen could never fully comprehend, but always identify.  
When they finally reach Nicaise, all sneering and elbowing each other, and Damen sees in slow motion Govart raising his hand, then dragging it down Nicaise’s back until he reaches his ass. Nicaise jumps back and hits a wall, completely cornered and trembling. His face is deformed by rage and fear and Damen’s heart drop at the sight.  
As nobody reacts other than looking or laughing, they keep on saying words that make Damen’s stomach turn, and Nicaise wipe out a knife out of his pocket, threatening them with it.  
By the time his mind starts functioning again, Laurent is already between them and Nicaise and says, his voice icy and menacing, “Fuck off. Now.”  
He is, at that instance, every inch the cold-hearted, cast-iron bitch that broke Govart’s nose once last year and that everyone fears. Damen forgets he used to think that too, before, and really wants to slap his previous self for being so wrong and so right at the same time.  
More people stop, hungry to see the prince of ice either obliterate someone, either getting punched. Govart doesn’t back down and sneers, “Wanna join the party, DeVere?”  
Damen seriously asks himself how stupid he is for a second. Between his altercations with Damen and the results of all his encounters with Laurent, one would start to think and learn and know better, but each times Govart marvels them with the level that his idiocy can reach. Maybe too much hits jeopardize his brain.  
He steps closer to intervene too, if only to snatch Nicaise away, but the look on Laurent’s face tells him otherwise. If Nicaise was trembling with every inch of his frame, traumatized and shocked beyond repair, Laurent stands straight and challenging, staring down Govart, not an ounce of fear visible. Damen knows he can fight his own battles.  
And soon enough, Laurent’s voice whips into the air, like a lightning bolt flashing into the sky, “Don’t step any closer.”  
“Your little friend is so dead,” says one of Govart’s friend, taking his phone out, “When the principal will see this-”  
Before he has time to take an incriminating picture of Nicaise with a knife on school grounds, Laurent slaps his hand hard, making the phone drop on the ground, its screen shattering. The silence that follows is deadly.  
Then, Govart growls, “You are both so fucked.”  
Laurent doesn’t answer and keeps on staring him down, radiating both his typical aloofness able to make anyone feel lesser than dirt and the quiet confidence that dares Govart to continue and see what he’s capable of. It’s immensely unnerving, and they all give in and step back unconsciously as only Govert him seems to bomb his torso. With a wide, perturbing smile, he even adds, “Unless you convinced me otherwise, hussy.”  
A shiver descends through Damen’s spine as Nicaise steps out of Laurent’ shadow with his knife raised and his jaw tensed in outrage. Students starts to talk, but Laurent stops Nicaise with a hand to his arm, and slowly, very deliberately, looks Govart up and down. His face pinches into the most disdainful expression of disgust he can mutter, and he says, “No thank you, I rather sleep with a monkey.”  
Govart lunches forward in rage, but Laurent has no trouble being the fastest into throwing a punch to his face and kicking him in the balls with his knees. Damen has to admit it’s a beautiful sight.  
Blue eyes overfly the audience’s faces before ordering, “I reckon it’s high time to clear the place. All of you.”  
Nobody is suicidal enough to contradict Laurent, and they scatter around. Govart is picked up from where he was crouched by his friends, and as they pass by, Damen can see that he hasn’t got a nosebleed, as Laurent is physically less strong than Damen, but will bruise the next day. His head is hung low and his eyes squint with the effort of not crying. Damen can’t resist a scorching, “Pathetic.”  
Seeing Govart grits his teeth is almost satisfying if Nicaise didn’t look so upset, so he goes to his friends’ side, concern dripping out of him, “Nicaise?”  
Nicaise curls up on himself, still shaking, his fingers white with how tight they grip the knife. Laurent gently prays it out of his hands and into his pocket, and immediately offers his hands back to Nicaise. After a few second, Nicaise puts both of his hands in his.  
His eyes never leaving the brown curls, Laurent whispers, just for Damen to hear, “He can’t go back to class like this.”  
There is a story there, like in Laurent’s tension when anyone brushes him, but Damen won’t press, ever. He nods and adds, “The principal –“ Nicaise interrupts him by crying out, “No! I won’t go back to him!”  
Laurent immediately says, firmly, “You won’t. I won’t allow it.”  
The words sink in slowly and Nicaise relaxes a bit, stumbling forward into Laurent’s embrace. Damen thinks about Lazar’s presence making his friends’ house safer, Laurent’s comments his uncle, Auguste’s protectiveness, the closeness between Laurent and Nicaise and every lewd unsolicited comment thrown at them. He thinks something breaks inside him.  
He unclenches his jaw to say, “Give me the knife. They saw you intervening and breaking this fucker’s phone: if they find the knife on you, you’re the one going to the principal’s office.”  
“That’s just stupid, they’ll search my locker, and everyone’s, including you. You can’t risk that a week away from the championship.”  
“We’ll hide it into the park! Come on!”  
Laurent frowns but still gives it to him. As he takes it, Damen reflects how he must be shaken and worried for Nicaise, if he argues this little. Not that Damen isn’t the same. Any other student would have outraged and asked why bringring a knife instead of asking help, but Damen knows no adult in this school would ever lift a finger for them, because they disturb by not fitting in. He silently pockets the knife and wonders what more he can do. He’s about to ask it aloud when Laurent puts his chin on Nicaise’s head, holding him closer and ask, “Let me walk you home? Wait no. Let’s go to Jord’s house? He doesn’t have any classes today.”  
As they separate with reluctance, Damen asks, “Are you going to be ok? Do you need us to come?”  
Laurent shakes his head, getting a tissue out of his bag for Nicaise, and says, “No. Hurry and get rid of the knife.”  
Damen can only watch them go, hand in hand.

He hurries to the park so fast he may be as well running when he arrives, and they all stand up abruptly upon his state. Aktis asks, “What’s going on?”  
The words spill out of him in waves. They spill out and spill out and it may as well be a tsunami at his point, which is, adequately, exactly what is happening inside him.  
Nikandros steps in to stop his flow, putting his hands on his shoulders and looking directly into his eyes. “Damen, breathe.”  
He stops talking. At this point he probably told them the story twice or three times, cursed out Govart even more. He checks himself, not understanding why Nikandros looks so concerned and find himself panting and shaking, his chest constricted. His fists are clenched so tight his nails are digging into his skin and there is something tumultuous happening inside him. It stirs and lifts his guts like a tsunami and Damen knows anger, but this is not anger, it’s panic and rage.  
He can’t shake the look in Nicaise’s eyes, usually so stubborn and full of mischiefs, dripping tears and hurt alike. Or the way he bit his lips enough to draw blood, his body trembling so much Damen was afraid he would shake himself out of his own skin.  
He relives a little too well the disappearance of the aloofness on Laurent, leaving behind eyes swirling with too many emotions at once, and mouth tugging down. His body was rigid as ice, but he refused to let go of Nicaise, far as long as Nicaise would have him.  
They had looked like two children holding each other in the dark, afraid of the monsters it hides.  
“Damen,” Nikandros repeats, bringing his attention back to him, “Are you ok?”  
Damen takes the time to look back at him, then at his friends, and says, low and menacing, “I’m going to kill them.”  
It takes Nikandros’ reasoning, Aimeric sweet comfort, and some physical restraint from Pallas and Aktis to stop him. In the end, they all settle when Aimeric reads out loud the text Jord sent him, _N & L at my house. Need privacy so gave them the keys. Can I stay at yours?_  
They take the time to each write a text to Nicaise, words of comfort or of outrage, asking to not hesitate to ask anything of them, letting them know they’ll wait until he’s ready to talk. Damen sends his own, _idk everything but we’re there for you_ to Nicaise and _Call me if you need anything_ to Laurent and reads Jokaste’s _You’re here for him. It’s already a lot_ to Laurent before she locks her phone.  
Focusing on classes is impossible after that and, in the end, he hears during break that Huet and Rochert got suspended for roughing up Govart and his friends.

Late at night, he receives a single, cryptic text from Laurent, _There is a lot to tell. For Nicaise and I alike. I don’t have the words for it yet._

*

Nationals come too fast after that.  
Nicaise comes back, a little clingy toward Laurent, and Govart ignores them.  
Laurent tries to express things he can’t to Damen. He guesses some between the lines and only a long evening hitting his wall until blood, a reprimand from his father and a phone call with Auguste manages to calm him down a little. The next day, he sits close to Laurent, and Laurent lets him and that’s what eases him more than anything.  
After that, the gates open between them and words come easier. They call each other almost every evening, and Damen tells him about Kastor and Jokaste, and Laurent about his parents. This phone call ends with Auguste’s far away voice saying, “Laurent? Come here” and some rustling and Damen wonders if they’re hugging and decides it’s best to hang up and leave them alone.

Nationals lasts one whole week, with five matches in the best-case scenario. He turns off his phone as soon as he arrives, between Makedon and his father.  
He tries to forget that Kastor didn’t even text, and maybe that’s the reason why he turns off his phone. To his father, he says he doesn’t want any distractions.  
The first two matches are a formality. His first opponent has a strong defence but a weak punch, and Damen just had to be patient enough for him to tire himself out. Among the first things that Makedon taught him are patience and resilience. _Don’t hurry. Keep your minds. Be on your guard. Be light on your feet._ The second opponent is just not on the same level.  
The third match is the disillusion he was waiting for. He is way weaker than his opponent, who is a machine throwing punch after punch - too many, too fast, too strong. Damen knows he’s already bruising, already bleeding.  
“Come on, kids!” Makedon shouts from the side, “You came this far already!”  
But none of his punches seems to land. He tries and he tries, but it’s like hitting a wall of concrete, unmoving and leaving him with bloody knuckles and aching arms. He loses the first round. When the second starts, it kicks off the same way and Damen can see with clarity the moment he’s going to lose, and maybe he wasn’t good enough after all. His focus reduces until all he can think about is the blood dripping down his shin, feeling it drop by drop, his movements mechanical.  
In a moment of self-deception, he thinks, _If I’d known I was going to lose, I’d have knocked Govart out._  
He ignores the part of him that knows that Nicaise would have hated to be the cause of his disqualification, that all his friends would have hated to see him disqualified before he even tried, that himself would have hated it. Because the major part of him is focusing on the feeling of not being good enough. It doesn’t matter how hard he trained, how strict was his diet, how much he wanted it – _his best isn’t good enough_.  
His dejected mind starts to swirl and swirl and lift the waves of the tsunami that threatens to raise inside him at any point, which waves are made of panic, depreciation and rage. He thinks, I’m not good enough to do that for a living, and, I’m not good enough to protect them. That last thought almost makes him stop in the middle of the match. He knows it’s not his role, but what good is his rage to him, if he can’t use it towards its sources, all the people hurting his friends? If he can’t become a professional boxer, he can at least use all that training to make sure Nicaise won’t ever need a knife again and Jokaste will walk with her head up again.  
Suddenly, there is a pair of blue eyes behind him, and he’s not naïve or so far in denial to think they’re Nicaise’s or Jokaste’s. He’s desperate and loosing and hanging on to the last shreds of hope he has, so his mind goes back like a reflex to the one thing that has as much as an important place as boxing inside him.  
And finally, his punch finds his adversaries’ torso.  
Then his jaw. Because it’s Laurent behind him. Laurent, holding all the colours of the sky inside him. Laurent, who had no one to protect him from his uncle when Auguste was away for a student exchange. Laurent, who smiles his mid-amused mid-exasperated rictus of his when Damen tries to protect him and allows it, even if most of the time he doesn’t need it. Laurent, whose main defence are sharp words and disdain, but sometimes that’s not enough against physical assault. Laurent, who’ll never, ever, need a knife, because Damen is there.  
It’s Laurent, and Damen can’t lose. He won’t.  
Before he can fully comprehend it, he wins the second round, then the third. And when his opponent lets himself fall down on the floor, just as bloody as Damen, and the referee holds his arm up to declare him victorious, Damen looks behind him, just to make sure Laurent isn’t there, body tense and eyes hard like when he’s afraid and doesn’t want to show it.

After that, his father franticly leads him to the shower and goes to buy more of the cream they put on his bruises. Makedon tells him to sleep, and that they’ll talk the next day. Under the shower, Damen puts his forehead on the tile and lets the warm water rushes over him as he engages in another match, this time inside him. It’s a match he knows he’ll always loose, desperate as he is for everything that is Laurent, needles and combat boots and all that. Even when he’s not there.  
Like an evidence, when he gets out, and his father isn’t back yet, he turns his phone on, and calls Laurent. Laurent picks up as quickly as ever, unconscious of the war he launched in Damen’s head, and greets him by, “I thought you didn’t want any distrac-“  
Damen interrupts him by a quick and clear, “Come here.”  
There is a silence and then, Laurent breathes out an incredulous, “What?”  
If it was any other day, Damen would gloat on rendering Laurent speechless, but today he is on a mission, so he says again, “Come here. Come watch me fight in the Nationals. Stay with me.”  
“I’ll just distract you.”  
“No. No, listen. Today … I almost loose, and then you were there, and you helped. I think I want – need you there.”  
He hears Laurent inhales abruptly, and then, in the quietness where he realizes what just escaped his mouth, his own heartbeat picking up. Laurent says, voice low and a little shaken, “I never know what to do with that brand of honesty you have,” and sighs heavily. And then, “Yes.”  
He’s sure he’s smiling like a child, but he doesn’t care, because he’ll have Laurent here, soon. He repeats, “Yes?”  
“Yes, ok. Let me talk to Auguste first. I think I can arrive by tomorrow.”  
Damen legitimately feels giddy. His heart is still racing and he’s shaking a little from the excitement, and it feels like they’re doing something silly, but he doesn’t care. Instead, out of nowhere, he asks, “What do you want to do in your life?”  
“Where did that come from?”  
“I don’t know, I’m just curious.”  
“I’m hesitating between fashion and edition.”  
“That’s…”  
“I know. Nowhere near compatible.”  
“Not really. It’s just a lot. I’m sure you’ll find a way.”  
“Because you think I can do anything.”  
“And I’m wrong?”  
“No. Not really.”  
Damen lets out a laugh at that, quickly aborted by Laurent saying, “So a professional boxer and an editor with his own fashion line?”  
His mind scrambles to a stop because Laurent had a way to say it like he envisioned their future together, and that’s exactly where Damen was going with this conversation, in a childish naïve way. That Laurent shares a silly hope like that after agreeing to Damen’ silly request just confirms their shared feeling in the best kind of way. He breathes out, “Yeah.” And then, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”  
“Yes. See you tomorrow.”  
“Wait!”  
“What is it now, Damen?”  
“I won. Today. I didn’t tell you.”  
Laurent laughs at the end of the line, “Oh, but I know, sweetheart. I know.”

Laurent arrives the next day during his practice to one daring wolf that gets shot down by an icy glare, several amused and knowing glances to Damen, and a pat on the shoulder from Makedon. Nobody misses the sharp contrast between the contestants and Laurent’ sense of style.  
His father doesn’t say much, taking in Laurent before sighing and booking himself another room so Laurent can take his bed, as if he’d always known that pretty boys with blue eyes and a devil mind are his son’s weakness. Which he probably does. Damen really loves his father right now.  
Damen takes off his gloves and steps away from his punching bag to meet him. The strands of blue in Laurent’s hair are cobalt, and he was right, it is very much the colours of his eyes.  
He also very much wants to kiss him, and if Laurent’s mocking smile is any indication, it’s written all over his face. He can wait, he decides, and says softly, “Hi.”  
Laurent’s answer is as soft, “Hi. What’s your program?”  
“Match tomorrow. If I win, the final is two days after.”  
“So, we’ll have a little time to visit the town.”  
Damen can only nod, as Laurent seems really pleased by the idea. He doesn’t dare break his bubble saying he has to practice and train for the major part of the day, but Laurent already knows that and says, “Go back to punching, then. I’ll be there.”  
He takes out his embroidery kit from his bag and goes to sit on a nearby bench, ready to occupy himself for as long as necessary. Damen smiles and puts his gloves back on, looking forward to being alone with him tonight.

He wins the next match and Laurent rewards him with a kiss that takes him by surprise and makes him smile until his jaw hurts. Then he spends the two days remaining between training, visiting town with his father driving them and kissing Laurent.  
The day of the final, Damen is insufferable. He’s so in his head that everything is annoying him. Laurent finishes an embroidery and starts reading a book on his morning training, and when his father drags them to eat, Damen barely touches his plate and grits out one or two biting words before realizing his mood won’t go away, and decides on staying quiet. His father, who knows his son and how he acts when he’s stressed, just drive them back so he can starts punching his bag again. Laurent silently holds his hands in the car and spends the afternoon on his phone.  
Towards the end of the afternoon, it’s time for the final. When Damen comes back from changing, his father and Laurent are already gone to sit in the audience. He listens to Makedon final’s advices and words of encouragements. This is it. This is what he had worked towards all year long, and even before. What he unfairly decided will prove if he’s good enough to enter professional championship.  
By the time he steps out to join the ring, he feels nauseous and the worst he ever felt. The applauses make his head ring and heart accelerate to a worrying speed. In a childish reflex, he looks up and searches for his father. He finds him close enough to the ring, looking infinitely amused by what is impossible to miss next to him – a huge banner with all his friends under it. Damen could cry on the spot, in front of the whole audience of strangers. They scream so loud when they see he noticed them. Only Berenger and Laurent don’t join the screaming, but they smile and applaud just as hard. The banner reads “Go Damen” in bold red letters and he laughs a little when he sees they added drawings of planets and atoms around.  
When he looks at Laurent again, he sees him mouth, _Surprise_ , and mouths back, _Thank you_.  
Laurent’ smile is so bright he vaguely wonders if he’s going to die. He wants nothing more than to run over to them, kiss Laurent and hug all his friends. But the referee calls him, clearly amused too, and Damen steps into the ring, feeling invincible.

When the referee holds up his arm and the room explode in applause, Damen can’t hear anything. His body is on fire, his mind in scrambles. He won. Finally.  
He’s supposed to feel satisfied, or happy, or something else equally beautiful.  
But he doesn’t. He feels empty. Empty and hurt.

The rest of the day is a blur. The award ceremony is the next day, to let them all clean and take care of the bruises. Makedon tells him to rest and ice it, and it’s his father that forces him to. Then, because one can’t raise a kid and don’t know him, he is left alone in his hotel room. He knows he should be celebrating with his friends and all, but he feels so badly that he can’t bring himself to.  
Laurent is the one to bring him some food, mostly junk, because now that the competition is over, Damen doesn’t have to follow his diet anymore.  
It’s over.  
He feels like maybe it’s the core of the problem.  
Suddenly, the end of high school doesn’t look like a good thing anymore.  
From the spot on the floor next to his bed, Laurent leans back to rest his head on the mattress, looking at him upside down, and asks, “So, how does it feel to win?”  
Still looking at the ceiling, Damen shrugs. He doesn’t know how to describe the tsunami inside, this time. It’s not his usual rage, it’s not panics. It’s a little sad, mostly tired and slightly lost.  
He spent so much time and energy on this goal that the end seems anti-climactic. Because victory isn’t supposed to feel like that, like aches and bruises and exhaustion beyond bearable, or maybe it does, but Damen wasn’t ready for it.  
“Feels like a loss,” is what he says.  
Laurent nods in understanding, because of course he does, and hums, “A loss of pupose.”  
When he doesn’t answer, Laurent fully turns to face him and says, slowly and carefully, “It doesn’t have to be the end. You can always do it again next year. Be a double National champion. Or don’t and focus on becoming professional. Or stop boxing all together and embark on a career as an astrophysicist.”  
Objectively, he knows Laurent is right, so he nods. Laurent shifts, and soon there is a cold hand combing through his hair, and all he can see is all the blues of the sky, as they whisper to him, “It’s the exhaustion talking, Damen. You were as taut as a thread, of course it’ll all come down crashing down now that it’s over. You should sleep on it.”  
For someone who relinquish a little too much in his reputation as a cast-iron bitch, Laurent sure knows how to be comforting. He opens his arms as an invitation and Laurent wordlessly settles himself on the bed with him. He falls asleep almost immediately.

The next day brings the joy he was supposed to feel before. Or maybe it’s going to eat breakfast downstairs and finding all his friends giggling and happy and congratulating him. He thinks he doesn’t imagine his father’s eyes tearing up a bit. They had their different about Damen boxing and wanting to go pro, but it doesn’t matter anymore. He knows his father will support him now.  
They make so much noises the other patrons of the hotel and the staff glare at them, but Damen is finally, finally happy, and proud, and accomplished. In the end, he loves boxing way too much. He can’t wait to take the next step and face the next challenge.  
When they slip his gold medals around his neck, he smiles and laughs.  
When his friends and father steps on the stage for a group hug, he takes Laurent’s face between his hands and kisses him right there in front of everyone. Laurent laughs into the kiss, his blue eyes shining with joy and his face blushing and it’s supposed to be Damen’s most important moment of the year, of his high school life, but he can’t seem to look away. Like the blue of the sky, he’s infinite, beautiful, and the only colour left when everything else disappear into it upon entering Earth.


End file.
